


Camelot Red

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:12:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the battle, all you have is the rush and the heartbeat and the rage. That’s how it goes and when it’s over you see. You never really want for it to be over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camelot Red

The man is as tall as a house and there’s death in his eyes, his crooked smile is malevolent and he is enjoying this, no question. Merlin knows he can fight back, but instead he is just backing away, stumbling over roots and rocks and bushes, breathing the best he can (and that’s not very good), eyes focused on Arthur who is fighting too, and way too close, _too close and that’s why he can’t do anything now_. The man is tall and his huge, sharp blade glistens in the sun like something it isn’t, something beautiful and innocent. Clean and sharp. A weapon made for murdering people senselessly. The man is getting very close to him and he has no way of defending himself, no way he can save his own life, no shield, no armour, not even a weapon because they did not come here to fight. And he is lying to himself now, of course he could defend himself, and his breath is catching in his throat as he’s half stumbling, half running away from the man and his blade that he could just _get rid of_ , easy as that. But Arthur is too close, ten feet away, fighting for his life like all of them, and Merlin can’t do it, because he hasn’t told him yet. And he can’t let Arthur know without telling him, he would rather die than for Arthur to not want him anymore -

And very suddenly the choice is not his to make anymore because the man with the blade has reached him and he isn’t going to hesitate, not like Merlin, and then there is pain and the last thing he knows is regret, because now Arthur is going to be alone. Arthur, that stupid, gullible man, in charge of a kingdom too big for him. He isn’t going to make it alone.

***

Leon has fought enough battles in his life to know what it’s like. It’s always the same, no matter who the enemy is, no matter if it’s just for fun, no matter if you’re just trying to kill as many people as you possibly can. It doesn’t change anything whether you’re certain you’re going to lose or the enemy has no chance at all. When you fight, you fight, and that’s all you do. It’s a rush, it’s a miracle how that works, really. In the heat of the moment, there’s nothing else but your blade and that of your opponent’s. There’s the constant beating of your heart filling your head, keeping you sane and safe and going - you’re still alive, but that might not be for long. A reminder. There are the sounds of the battle, men screaming, blades clanging together, horses neighing, and not every noise has a name or a reason in your head but you let it go because this is it, you’re fighting for your life, your honour, your country, your King - you’re fighting for everything you’ve ever held dear in your life, everything that has ever mattered. And that is the case every time, in tournaments as well as in the battlefield, because there is no moment when you can afford to suspect whether this, all of it, is worth it. It always is, it’s important, and you have to remember that, always and every second. There’s no room to think if that’s true, if that even matters. It’s everything. This fight. I can’t let them win. I can’t let them take it all away from me.

I can’t let them take him away from me. Not that he would let it happen. Percival is not stupid. Percival is never unable to fend for himself. He’s strong, and beautiful, and worth it, like every single one of them is. That’s enough reason to keep fighting. All of them, loyal and just and strong, every single one of them fighting for a king like Arthur is, the king he can still become. Fighting for each other as much as a future for them all, a new world and a better tomorrow.

Leon’s been in enough battles to know already. He’s lost and won, he’s triumphed and he’s run, and he’s never been alone. They always fight together, and someone has his back, and if not really, then he knows someone out there is thinking about him. That helps, when you’re not sure, walking in. And then you are, then you do, and doubt leaves you, doubt is no more and will never return because in a battle there’s no room for mistakes, there’s no room for moments of doubt, there is no room for fear or hurt or hesitation. There is a rush of blood to your head, there is a thrumming in your ears, there is your blade and his, a dance more beautiful than anything Leon has ever seen outside of a battleground because it’s a dance of life and death, mostly of death and that makes it all the more beautiful. A dance to run away from what every man fears the most. To take a hit and keep going. Notice a bleeding wound that might kill you later but not feel the pain because it’s later, and the things you have time to do before later - that’s a lot and could save someone’s life, could end one, make it easier for the others. When you fight, you don’t think of hurt as long as you can stand up.

When you fight, you fight, and afterwards it’s like waking up where you’ve been all this time. But afterwards is later and in the battle, all you have is the rush and the heartbeat and the rage. That’s how it goes and when it’s over you see.  
You never really want for it to be over.

That battle is not unlike any other. Afterwards, Leon can’t remember who has died by his hand, doesn’t want to remember and probably never even knew. There were many, that he can tell, because they have won and it’s another kind of rush completely, they’re covered in sweat and blood and dirt and smiling at each other, relieved, because there is no Camelot red among the bodies lying close by. It’s no army they’ve taken care of; just a group of bandits, albeit a powerful bunch. They’re not all there anymore, of course not; once they’ve seen where this battle is going, the rest of them have run off as fast as they can, but that’s no worry of theirs any longer. They must’ve taken down at least fifteen men, and that’s not bad at all.

“Well,” Gwaine says, panting, but he sounds like his cheerful self, “that could’ve been a lot worse.”

Percival is standing next to Leon, looking at him with a raised eyebrow, hand on his shoulder, reassuring, questioning. Percival is not a man of words, but he doesn’t really need to be, not for Leon. Leon looks at him and smiles, I’m fine, we did good, and that’s that. Percival nods, smiling, and walks away to have a closer look at the bodies.

“Where’s Merlin,” Leon hears Arthur say.

That very second Leon knows he doesn’t want to know, because Arthur’s voice is not a question but a cry for help. Arthur knows where Merlin is, he just doesn’t want to know. And Leon, too, has a good guess. The joy and relief of a battle won disappears from every single one of them, fast and without mercy, in a heartbeat.

There is no Camelot red among the corpses. Merlin never wears Camelot red. He doesn’t need to. Everybody knows where his loyalties lie.

Leon is sure of it before Percival kneels next to one of the corpses, half hidden in the bushes, maybe a hundred feet away from where they all stand. He’s sure of it the moment he first hears Arthur’s voice, really. But it doesn’t make it easier to realise he’s right. A cold hand around his heart that’s still calming down after the heat of a battle, intense and addicting, and he can’t remember how it’s supposed to feel even though it’s mere minutes away.

Leon turns to look at Arthur. He’s not sure if the others realise, but he’s known Arthur longer than them. He’s known Merlin, too, and he’s known them together and apart - mostly together, and it pains him, because he knows that somewhere behind him Percival is looking at Arthur with despair in his eyes, but he can only see how Arthur crumbles to pieces in front of him. He doesn’t fall, he doesn’t shout, he doesn’t cry. He just looks past Leon with death on his face, disbelief and fear deeper than anything, grief like no other waiting to happen. There he stands, his young and wonderful and strong king with the face of a dead man, and Gwaine squeezes his shoulder with white knuckles, seemingly afraid that if he lets go, Arthur will fall to pieces.  
He might be right.

Arthur starts with slow, shaky steps, and Percival knows to step away from the body. At first, Leon thinks Arthur won’t make it, but then the despair triumphs the shock and the fear, and in the end, he half-runs, half-stumbles to Merlin, falls next to his body, and the sound that comes out of him when he finally sees him is not human.

They get closer but stand away. He doesn’t know if the others have seen it before, but it’s spread in front of their eyes now, and they can tell this is their moment - and no, because Merlin is dead (and Leon can’t quite grasp it because it feels so foreign to even think like that), it’s for Arthur alone now, and they are not to interfere, even though they have all loved Merlin, like everybody who ever knew him. But it was different for them and Leon knows it, and everyone can see it now. Gwaine sits down, empty-eyed. Lancelot is wearing death on his face. Merlin was his best friend, Leon suddenly remembers. Elyan looks the other way, a shadow of himself. Percival wraps his arm around Leon’s shoulders, and he’s ever grateful for that, because he might not have the energy to stand up otherwise. He rests his head against Percival’s shoulder, wraps his hands around his waist and buries his face in his neck because he can’t stand to watch Arthur’s pain, he has enough to bear with his own. Nobody cares about whatever might be going on between the two of them anymore.

***

Arthur is shaking, he can’t really breathe, and every second takes the rest of the world further away from him. Merlin can’t be dead, Merlin is the most alive person he has ever known, but he is there, his still body under his hands, almost cold and so horribly unmoving and with blood all over. Most definitely not alive anymore, at all.

The king has forgotten about his knights now. The king has forgotten about his kingdom. There is nothing left for him here now, not anymore, nothing more than Merlin’s pale face that still looks like he could just wake up, laugh it off, _the look on your face_. But that isn’t going to happen, and Arthur just wants to know who did this, who took the life away from this man who had so much ahead of him - how many times Merlin has saved his life, Arthur can’t even begin to count and he couldn’t even manage that this once for his best friend, the love of his life, the only one who has ever really mattered to him.

It’s quite simple now, really, Arthur thinks and his hand is shaking, he’s trying to wipe away the blood even though it’s futile, of course, because it’s everywhere, soaked in Merlin’s clothes, splattered on his face, it’s almost as if it’s taken him over. It’s simple because he can see it now, like he’s seen for years even though he hasn’t said it, this is what they always were. Arthur and Merlin, and somehow they should have been together forever, two sides of the same coin, destined for something bigger. Merlin always talked about that. It’s simple, Merlin was Arthur’s whole life, a servant for a king and that is completely ridiculous but he has never had a truer thought in his head, he realises. He is not sure if he can make it without him, he can’t even bear to think what tomorrow will be like.

He wipes his face with bloody fingers, trying to cover the tears he isn’t even sure are there, but Merlin’s blood on his skin is comforting and unsettling at the same time and that doesn’t even make sense because he’s holding his best friend’s body in his hands, and he can’t bear to finish that thought. How is it even so, a best friend, really? Was he? Must have been, there was no other, Arthur would’ve trusted his life with Merlin and that is what he has done, so many times it’s hard to count but it makes all the difference to know that. Complicated. Painful. Did he even know him? What did Merlin ever tell him about himself? You’re a riddle, Merlin, he had said once, and Merlin hadn’t really denied it, couldn’t have, because he had been keeping something secret from him behind his sad, carefree smile, the one that was meant to make Arthur believe everything is fine, but it had really told him that no, nothing is fine, but it’s time to stop asking questions now because you have no idea how much they hurt me. How well could he have known a man like that, with secrets that keep him awake at night but too grand to ever be revealed to your best friend, your king -

There had always been something about Merlin he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The first time they had met, Merlin had been a clumsy and rude brat who hadn’t known his place, and he hadn’t really changed ever since. But that had never been everything there was to him, Arthur was sure. That was not why he had fallen for him, that was not why he had trusted him, that was not why he had given Merlin every piece of himself to have for his own. Never has Arthur done anything like that ever before, not ever before Merlin could he have even considered giving all of himself to another person, as a whole and in pieces, just every breath of him and everything that is his to give.

Arthur lowers his forehead to lean against Merlin’s blood-stained chest. There is no heart pumping, his chest isn’t rising and falling as he breathes any longer, and it never will again. Arthur closes his eyes. The last warmth of life is escaping this body - Arthur clenches Merlin’s shirt in his fists, that can’t be true, this can’t be over - and soon, there is nothing to hold on to. There isn’t anymore, not really. But how could he ever let go?

“I love you,” he whispers. He doubts that anyone can hear, but he doesn’t really care, anyway. His desperate thoughts are a thunder in his head and he can’t let them go, can’t let this - the last of Merlin - ever disappear.

Merlin always had something to hide from Arthur. This, he had known. I don’t own him, he had told himself, I’m not like that. He is his own person and he has the right to choose with whom he shares his secrets. But Merlin never chose Arthur, and nothing has ever pained him more. Nothing except for this, right now and he sees that despite any secrets there may have been, Merlin was always his.

***

He could have saved himself. That is the only thought in Lancelot’s head as he watches Arthur be undone. Merlin could have saved himself, but he didn’t, and Lancelot has never hated Arthur more in his life.


End file.
